Dead Ends
by happycabbage75
Summary: Sam and Dean accidentally run across a ghost who's having a bad hair day… Season 8, post the first trial, but before Remember the Titans.
1. Chapter 1

**Dead Ends**

Disclaimer: Not mine. Just borrowing.

This is set mid-season 8 after the boys are happily back together, but before _Remember the Titans_. It's a short puff piece because I don't feel like drowning in angst right now.

Chapter One

* * *

Dean looked across the car and saw Sam jerk his head to one side to get his hair out of his face. At this point, it was nearly a tick Sam did it so often.

"Dude, if your hair gets any longer, you're gonna have Farrah hair."

"Let it go, Dean."

"I keep waiting for you to get one of those pick things from the 80s so you can feather it."

Sam looked up at him and scowled. He also twitched again to get his hair out of his eyes. "Dean, everything in your life is messy. You're a messy eater, you never put anything back where it's supposed to be, you don't do laundry until everything you own smells bad enough that even the waitresses start to complain. I cannot help it that the one thing you keep in military order is your hair."

"A barbershop is a manly place where men go to be men. It's a joy and a privilege." Dean cast him a sidelong glance. "Not that you'd know that. It's also a good place to get the local gossip for a case."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Yeah, Dean. Barbers can do no wrong. That's why you still complain about The Great Scalping of '97."

Dean put on a show of being horrified. "Dude, if that guy was a licensed barber, then donuts are bad for you."

"Donuts _are_ bad for you."

"Long-haired Commie," Dean muttered under his breath, then gave his brother a low-watt glare. "Whatever. I looked like Telly Sevalis."

Sam grinned at the memory. "Dude, how old _are_ you? Get a new reference. And it hardly mattered anyway. It took, what… two whole days for your hair to grow out again?"

Dean couldn't help it. He grinned too, although not for the same reason as Sam. He had his brother back, finally. It seemed like forever since things had been ok between them. He didn't have to watch his soulless, sociopathic brother for any signs that he'd decided Dean was too much trouble and was going to put a bullet in him. He didn't have to worry about the wall holding back Sam's time in hell. He didn't have to worry Sam was going to run off for the Apple Pie Life, or be an ass about Benny. It was a relief. Cause that kind of stuff got to wear on a guy.

Now he just had to worry that his brother was going to completely fry himself trying to close the gates of hell. So… pretty much business as usual. _Watch out for Sammy_.

"So, what's next on the agenda?" Dean asked. He'd called Kevin an hour earlier and been told in no uncertain terms to leave him alone to work. The kid had sounded frazzled and close to freaking out at the interruption, so Dean had decided to give him another day or two before bugging him again about results.

"Not much really," Sam said. "We can crash somewhere for a few days if you want." It was said almost hopefully, and Dean looked at his brother sideways. Sam had assured him he was fine after the first trial, but Dean knew that whatever happened after killing the hellhound had definitely knocked the wind out of his sails.

To be honest, Dean wasn't too excited about running into another hunt right away either. The hellhound had done more damage than he wanted to admit and hellhounds… well, it wasn't his favorite way to spend time. It brought up disasters and deaths and pain and… a lot of other things he really, really wished weren't permanently burned into his memory.

Dean cleared his throat. "Sounds like a plan. We can stop at the next town up."

Sam just nodded and looked out the side window. It was a pleasant silence, not their usual tension-filled, I-really-want-to-yell-at-you sort of silence, which had been the case far too often in recent memory. Dean almost felt like he was on vacation it was such a relaxing feeling.

The road stretched out ahead of him, but within a few miles clumps of houses began to appear. A town wouldn't be too far and hopefully they could find a nice, cheap motel that wouldn't look too closely at their cards.

Sure enough, a mile or so later a few fast food restaurants appeared, along with some other businesses that looked farm oriented, lots of tractors, seed, Get-Your-Overalls-Here, and co-op type signs. Directly past that was a small town sized hospital, which Dean always thought it was best to note ahead of time, given how things seemed to work for them.

Looking off to the right of the hospital, Dean immediately slammed on the brakes and turned in. There was smoke coming from a smaller building in the same complex, but not directly attached to the hospital.

"You calling?" Dean asked, glancing to see that Sam was way ahead of him and already had his phone to his ear to make sure the fire department was on the way.

Dean drove through the parking lot like a maniac, although he quickly stopped the car and parked it a good distance away so he wouldn't be blocking any fire trucks that showed up. He bolted out of the car and knew Sam was doing the same as they watched a handful of people staggering out of the front of the building, smoke billowing through the doors behind them.

"How many are inside?" Sam asked, stopping the first person they got to.

"Don't know," the man coughed out. "We were in the front… front lobby." He was far too thin and unnaturally bald and Dean had a sneaking suspicion he knew why. He looked up and saw that the front of the overly modern, glass and stucco building was emblazoned with "Marie J. Morgan Cancer Pavilion."

The man started to falter and Sam immediately put an arm around him, urging him to one side to sit in the grass farther from the building. The other patients were already doing the same, some managing to get farther from the doors than others. Dean saw a woman in a lab coat appear and headed in her direction.

"Is that everyone?" he asked.

"No." The woman shook her head, her eyes wide and panicked. "The infusion room!" She began coughing badly. "I couldn't get the door open and there are several patients in there!"

"What's the infusion room? I need to know what I'm looking for."

"Where the patients get their IV drugs!" she answered impatiently.

Dean ignored the attitude. "It's locked? Do I need a key card or something?"

"I tried!" the woman shouted. "I already tried mine and Cindy's!" She stopped again to cough. "The door won't open! I have to go around back!"

Dean didn't argue with her. He could hear sirens in the distance now, but he was already here and if he could do something he would.

"Sam, you got this?" he shouted, watching his brother moving from person to person trying to assess them as best he could.

"Yeah," he called back. He frowned worriedly seeing Dean heading toward the back of the building, but Dean waved him off and broke into a jog to keep up with the woman who was well ahead of him now.

"What are we looking for?" Dean asked when he caught up.

"There's a back door into the infusion clinic," the woman said, her coughing turning nearly to wheezing as she hurried.

"Lady, you're in no shape for this. Just point me in the right direction," Dean urged. Even as he said it, she faltered slightly and leaned against a nearby tree for support, coughing badly. She grabbed the badge she had clipped to her lab coat and waved for him to take it.

"Hurry. Tanks."

"I'm sorry?" Dean asked.

She coughed again and struggled to draw in a deeper breath. "Chemicals. Tanks. Patients." She put her hands together and made the universally acknowledged gesture for "BOOM."

Dean snatched the ID card from her hand and hoofed it.

So much for that feeling of relaxation.

* * *

_A tiny little beginning. More soon…_


	2. Chapter 2

_So… Sam and Dean to the rescue, saving people from burning buildings, etc. On we go…_

Chapter Two

* * *

Dean raced to the door, slid the ID card through, and waited half a second before realizing the back door into the clinic wasn't going to open. It was also built to open out which meant kicking it in wasn't an option. Dean pulled his gun from his waistband and immediately shot through the lock. He figured the place was a wreck already so no one would care.

Dean was pulling the door open when Sam appeared at his side. "What's going on?"

"The lady says there are patients trapped back here, not to mention tanks and chemicals that will explode."

Sam didn't hesitate, he grabbed the door alongside Dean, adding his considerable muscle, and together they wrenched it open. Smoke began pouring through the door and they both pulled their shirts up to covers their noses and mouths.

Dean went in first, staying low to keep beneath the smoke as best he could. Sam was right behind him and they hurried inside.

Beyond the door was a large room filled with recliner type chairs. Next to each chair was in IV pole. A couple of people were standing, while others were sitting in the chairs, still attached to their IVs. A frazzled-looking thirtyish nurse was working frantically to disconnect them, while speaking loudly to the patients. "Just hold on, guys. The fire department will be here any minute."

"The back door's open now," Dean said loudly. "We need everybody to head out that way!"

The nurse's head snapped up and she stopped what she was doing. "Ok, guys," she said, sounding far too cheerful, "everybody still connected to their pump who can walk, head for the door. Just take the IV stand with you!"

The people who'd been on their feet hurried toward Sam and Dean who pointed them in the right direction. They then headed for the nurse to see what they could do. She'd managed to disconnect a couple of others, but they were still sitting in their chairs.

"Can you two carry people?" the nurse asked.

Sam didn't even answer. He grabbed the closest person, an elderly man, and gathered him in his arms, hurrying toward the door. The old man looked like a big kid next to Sam's brawn.

Dean did the same for the next person, and for the next few precious seconds, they ferried patients back and forth, setting them in the grass behind the building, but far enough away that it would be safe. Finally, there was only one person left, a woman who could have been anywhere from twenty-five to forty. It was hard to tell without hair, not to mention Dean's eyes were streaming from the smoke.

"You ready?" Dean asked the woman.

She looked uncertainly toward the nurse who nodded. "Don't worry. I've got it."

"Got what?" Dean asked.

"Her chemo," the nurse replied. "It's time sensitive. I can't unhook her. She's already halfway through."

Dean knew they didn't have time to argue. He picked up the woman, who weighed hardly anything. He waited for the nurse to wheel the IV pump and together they hurried out. Once outside, the IV pump refused to roll as had been the case with the others they'd helped out. Sam ran to them and picked up the machine when he saw the nurse struggling with the weight.

"The main hospital." She pointed across the parking lot. "She needs to be taken to the ER immediately. She has to be monitored during the infusion. Can you carry her that far?"

"Sure." Dean had carried his gigantic brother. He could certainly carry a featherweight.

"Do not let the light hit that chemo bag," the nurse ordered.

"What?" Dean looked at the bag attached to the pole and saw that there was an IV bag hanging, but it was covered in another bag that looked a bit like window tinting, although it was open at the bottom.

"Her chemo is time sensitive and light sensitive. It's only good for an hour and sunlight could damage it."

"We're going," Sam said. "You don't have to explain. Go look after the others."

Dean held the tiny woman in his arms and walked, trying not to jostle her, while Sam wheeled the IV pump alongside. Dean looked down and realized that the woman was wide awake and staring up at him.

"How you doing?" he asked, stifling a cough of his own.

"Our infusion center just spontaneously combusted, and I'm on a round of chemo that costs forty thousand a bag. I'm having one pooper of a day."

Dean didn't know which part to latch onto first, the unbelievable amount or the spontaneously combusted part. He finally decided to go with the part normal people would ask. "Seriously? Forty grand?"

"You'd think it was gold," the woman answered, "but this stuff is meant to kill bone marrow specifically. It's why she didn't unhook me. Not something you want done half-assed."

"Guess not."

"I was supposed to be sent to a special lockdown unit as soon as the infusion was over. It's on fire now though."

"I'm sure they'll figure something out," Dean assured her.

Sam cleared his throat and then coughed hard enough that Dean glanced at him worriedly. He waved it away though and asked the woman, "What did you mean combusted?"

"Exactly what I said," she replied calmly. "You didn't see her because of the smoke, but Sheila just… caught fire. She was on oxygen, and I guess that could be it, but… that's not the weird part…"

They were approaching the entrance to the ER, and Dean saw there were people standing outside already waiting with a gurney. The nurse must have called to give them a heads-up. Before he or Sam could ask any other questions, the woman, whose name they still didn't know, was being wheeled away from them.

Dean made the snap decision to follow. Spontaneously combusting cancer patients… Could be an accident with the oxygen, or it could be something more in their line of work.

A doctor was already walking alongside the woman's gurney. "Don't worry, Laura. We're arranging to transport you to the cancer center in downtown Springfield. We have to keep you here though while we finish the chemo and make sure you're stable enough to be moved."

The woman was wheeled into an ER bay and a nurse walked in and began to pull a curtain around her. Dean quickly put out a hand so he and Sam could step inside the little curtained inner sanctum.

"Are you family?"

"We're here for Laura," Dean answered, refusing to say one way or another. It wasn't like the woman had anyone else there for her while she was hospitalized.

The overburdened nurse just went back to her work. "Laura, how's your breathing?"

"Ok," the woman answered. "I got some smoke, but not too bad."

The nurse nodded, but still pulled out her stethoscope and set it against the woman's back. "Take a deep breath for me." Laura complied and the nurse moved the stethoscope. "Again." By the third time, Laura began coughing and the nurse was already reaching for the oxygen. Just try and rest," she said, after putting the nasal cannula in place. "I'll be back in just a minute and I'll stay until the chemo is finished in case there are any complications."

Dean waited until the nurse disappeared and guessed this was going to be their only opportunity. "Can you talk?" he asked the woman.

"I'm on chemo and my hospital room burnt down." She smiled, although it was a bit lopsided. "Sounds like the perfect time to chat."

Dean shifted, feeling awkward. He wasn't really sure how to treat her. She might have plenty of moxy, but she looked like a stiff wind would blow her away. Still, he needed the information. "You said there was something weird that happened before the fire. Can you tell us what it was?"

"Sheila… She was wearing her wig."

Dean didn't see why that was such a big deal. "So?"

"So it was really bothering her for some reason. She kept itching at it and scratching and moving it around. It was driving her crazy. Not that it doesn't drive us all crazy. It's a freaky red color that only clowns would dye their hair."

"And?" He wasn't sure where she was going with this.

"And finally, she ripped the thing off her head and threw it on the floor." She shrugged. "Some of us go a little nutso from time to time. Things just get too much and we sort of fling ourselves around a bit. Kind of like kids throwing tantrums."

"So she threw her wig on the floor," Sam repeated. "Then what?"

"Then she went up like a roman candle. The nurse grabbed a blanket and tried to put her out, but it was too late."

"You said there was something else though?" Sam pressed. "Something weird?"

"Other than the lady on fire," Dean murmured and Sam shot him a quick glare.

"Yeah." She looked at them nervously, as if unsure whether she wanted to tell them or not.

"Look, whatever it is, you can tell us," Sam assured her, using his I'm-so-gentle-and-trustworthy tone.

"The wig," she finally said. "On the floor. I could have sworn I saw it move."

* * *

_More soon..._


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

* * *

Sam and Dean walked out of the ER and back into the sunshine. They'd asked Laura a few more questions about the wig and the fire, but the woman hadn't been able to tell them anything else, so they'd left her in the hands of the doctors who were readying her to be shipped out to a bigger, better equipped facility.

Outside, the large parking lot was still filled with fire trucks and the police had arrived as well, although it looked like they were mostly just standing around at this point while they waited for the firemen to do their thing. The cancer center was now a smoking ruin that they were still dumping water on. It looked like most of the patients who'd been sitting on the lawn had been moved to the main hospital, but there were still a couple who were getting oxygen from the medics.

"Ya know," Dean started, "once, just _once_, I'd like to help somebody and not have it turn to complete crap. I mean, I'd like to stop and help some lady change a tire and not have it turn out the car is possessed, or that the chick is evil and is trying to trap us into… whatever. I'd like to give somebody directions and not have it be some guy wanting a chance to gut us. Maybe I'd like to stop at a random fire and help a few people out without a freaking _Wig of Doom_ showing up. I mean seriously! How hard is it?"

"You finished?" Sam asked, when Dean halted his rant for half a second.

"Maybe," Dean said. "I don't know. Give me a second."

Sam smiled. It was almost… soothing. Listening to his brother gripe about things they couldn't change... It was like old rock songs and the smell of gun oil. It was just part of… home. And it was so much better than the constant blaming and anger Dean had aimed in his direction since he'd come back from purgatory. Not that it hadn't gone both ways.

"Come on," Dean said. "That nurse lady is still with the ambulances."

Sam squinted and saw that Dean was right. The nurse who'd been locked in the infusion room was sitting on the back of one of the ambulances with an oxygen mask over her face. His vision went blurry for just a second, and Sam almost came to a halt, but then his eyes came back into focus and he continued following Dean. Smoke inhalation, maybe… It would pass.

Dean stopped at the back of the ambulance. He turned and when he realized Sam was a few feet behind him, he gave him an odd look, but then let it go for which Sam was grateful.

"How you doing?" Dean asked the nurse.

"Ok," she said, then pulled the mask down. "Everyone got out safely… except Sheila."

Sam and Dean shared a look, silently discussing how they wanted to handle their "witness." She was traumatized, but then some nurses were used to death and the process of dying, especially one who'd been working in a cancer center. It was also his experience that nurses could be some of the most overly assertive people on the planet to the point of being hard as nails.

Sam finally decided on the direct approach. "Laura said the woman just caught fire."

"Yes," the nurse answered, clearly defensive. "And don't ask me what happened. She uses oxygen, but she wasn't on it at the time and I'd just checked her IV. There was nothing wrong with it."

"Her wig was bothering her?"

"Yeah. As usual, she was being a royal pain and whining about everything until…"

"Until she blew up," Dean added helpfully.

The nurse's eyes narrowed. "She didn't blow up. She caught fire. Who are you two anyway? The police already talked to me."

"We're with the team investigating the fire," Dean answered smoothly.

She frowned in confusion. "But you were here when it started."

"We were already at the firehouse for an inspection when they got the call," Sam chimed in. "Our car can move a little faster than the fire trucks. We were just ahead of them."

The nurse nodded, although she was still frowning. "Fine." She stuck the mask back over her face and took several breaths. "Anything else?"

"You said the wig was bothering her…" Dean shifted on his feet, and cleared his throat. "Did, uh… did you see anything odd… about her wig?"

"Other than it was a color not found in nature?" She looked at them like they were crazy. "No not really."

Dean glanced at Sam with a definite Help-me-out-here.

"Do you happen to know where she got the wig?" Sam tried.

"Not sure." The nurse shrugged. "Most people get them at Susie's place south of town. Why?" Her gaze sharpened and she once again pulled the mask away from her mouth. "Do you think there was a problem with her wig?"

Dean just shook his head. "If looks could kill."

Sam took that as his cue, grabbed his brother by the arm and began to pull him away. "Thank you for your time, ma'am."

* * *

The phonebook gave them the full address for "Sue's Scarves, Hats, and Wigs," which was apparently on a little country road not too far from town. As they pulled in the drive, it looked like a small pole barn had been built beside her house and spruced up to be a small business. An open sign hung in the door, so Sam got out of the car with Dean close behind.

There was a set of bells on the door that made an unbelievable racket as they entered. On the ride over Sam had been working on a headache and the bells ratcheted it up to mind-numbing levels.

Inside the store there were various tables all around the room covered in dummy heads wearing an assortment of wigs in varying lengths and styles. In the center of the room, there was a large metal tree-like stand that had different types of hats on each arm and on one wall there were a couple of cases showing off a large collection of scarves.

After another second or so, a woman appeared through a doorway at the back of the shop, apparently alerted by the noisy bells on the door. She looked to be fiftyish, portly, and was dressed in jeans and a flowered Wal-mart type shirt, with a pair of glasses dangling from a cord around her neck.

"Hi." The woman smiled cheerily. "Marcy said you'd be by. Glad you came." She walked straight to Sam and stared up at him, making Sam back up a step warily. The woman reached up and fingered a strand of Sam's hair. "I'll give you a good price," she said. "It just depends on whether you're willing to let me shave your head or not."

"Excuse me?" Sam said, probably too loudly, and backed up another step.

"Your hair," she said and frowned in confusion. "It's a good length, although from what Marcy said I was expecting it to be longer. Still… if you'll let me have it all, I'll give you a good price and I'll be able to make a decent wig from it."

Sam looked over to Dean for help only to see that his brother looked like he was going to explode he was trying so hard not to laugh. Even as he watched, Dean gave up and let out a whooping laugh and started to double over, letting out more high gasping hoots of laughter.

The woman looked from one of them to the other, confusion turning to irritation. "What's so funny?"

After another second, Dean managed to get himself under control and said, "Sammy wouldn't let you cut his hair if his life depended on it," still chuckling a bit.

"But Marcy-"

"Marcy didn't send us," Sam cut in, embarrassed that he sounded a little desperate even to his own ears. "We're here about another matter."

"Oh." The woman backed away from him sheepishly. "Sorry. I thought you were here to sell your hair."

Dean let out another inelegant snort of laughter. "No, ma'am. But thank you for the laugh. I haven't had a good one in a long while."

Sam looked to his brother and saw that he was being completely genuine. His brother did love a good laugh and there had been precious little opportunity for it since… well, ever… not to mention a year spent in purgatory. The thought of Dean's laughter brought a smile to his own face, and Sam decided not to hold it against the lady that she'd just threatened to shave his head.

"So how can I help you?" she asked. "Do you… or a family member need something?"

"Actually," Sam said, "we're here about a woman named Sheila. She bought a wig from you with bright red hair."

The woman shook her head. "I warned her she was going to look like Ronald McDonald, but she picked that color and wouldn't budge. What about her?"

"Can you tell us if her wig was made from human hair or if it was synthetic?" Sam knew that many wigs on the market these days were made from fake hair, but there were still many made from human hair, most of it brought in from overseas where selling your hair was still a decent way to make a few bucks. Human hair wigs were much, much more expensive though than synthetic wigs.

"Oh, it was real hair. She said it had to be and then she made me dye it that awful color. It was a complete waste, if you ask me, but… nothing I could do about it. Now, what's this about?" She frowned and looked from one of them to the other. "Who are you and what's an old lady's wig got to do with you?"

"Our grandmother is going to need a wig before too long and you're the only place around here and we saw Sheila…" Dean grinned. "And we wanted to make sure all your wigs didn't look that bad."

The woman rolled her eyes. "No accounting for taste. Sheila always was a bit of a weird one."

"Do you happen to know where the hair for her wig came from?" Sam asked casually. If the hair had come from some poor woman in India then there was simply nothing they could do about it other than destroy any remnants that might be left. If they were really lucky, then Sheila's wig was all there was and it had already burned in the fire.

The shopkeeper looked at him at if he was definitely an odd one, but finally said, "Sure. I got the hair from Peg Stapleton. Her husband's a barber. When she got sick, she was going to lose her hair anyway and her husband cut it all off for her. She had hair down to here." The woman made a gesture to show that the woman had had long hair down past her hips.

"She cut it off before she lost it?" Dean asked, surprised.

"Some people do. It gets messy when it's falling out bit by bit and it really would have been for her since it was so long. Just depends on the person though. Some want to just get it over with, but some choose to hold on as long as they can."

Dean ran a hand through his short hair and Sam could see him thinking about which he would choose. At least that was his best guess since Sam was considering the same. He wasn't sure what he would do. He'd always left his hair long. His father and Dean had stuck with the military haircut, and it had been Sam's own little personal point of rebellion against anyone trying to tell him how to live his life. He had refused to be just another soldier and the thought of losing it was more troubling than he wanted to admit. Still… if he had to lose it, it was a question of control. Would he want to be the one to let it go, or would he let time and illness take it?

Sam mentally shook himself. It didn't matter at this point and he would be amazed if he managed to live to an age where he would have to deal with that sort of question.

"So her barber husband cut all her hair off and gave it to you to make wigs?"

"Yes," the lady replied, "in exchange for my making a wig for her first from her own hair. It was a good deal. She had such long, thick hair, even with making a shoulder length wig for her, I still made good use of the rest."

"You made more than the two wigs from her hair?" Dean asked, lips pursed like he already knew he wasn't going to like the answer.

"Sure." The shopkeeper smiled. "I made five."

* * *

_So not a Wig of Doom, more like Wigs of Doom! More soon…_


	4. Chapter 4

Alrighty… Have to track down all those wigs now…

Chapter Four

* * *

"You made five wigs out of one woman's hair?" Dean asked. Sam wasn't sure if he was appalled or just surprised.

"Sure," the shopkeeper replied. "Peg had very thick hair and it was so long that I put it to good use. I promised her I would use every last bit because her hair meant so much to her. I think it nearly broke her heart when she lost it."

"And you sold them all?"

The woman smiled, clearly thinking she might make a sale. "I still have one actually."

"That's great," Dean said. He felt his pockets overdramatically, then said, "Crap. I left the phone in the car. Let me go get it so I can take a picture."

Sam winced yet again at the sound of the bells on the door as Dean left, but stifled it. A headache was the least of their problems. Sheila's wig was gone, there was one in the shop, but that left the one made for the hair's original owner who had since passed away, obviously, and two more ticking time bombs out there that they would need to track down.

"So how did you get into a job like this?" Sam asked, covering for Dean while he presumably went out to get the EMF meter from the car.

"My mother was a wigmaker," the woman answered.

"And you still pay people for their hair… Kind of outdated, isn't it, with all the new synthetics?"

The woman smiled as if she'd been asked that one too many times. "It used to be quite common for people to sell their hair when times got tough. These days, people donate it to Locks of Love, or other charities, but I'm still willing to pay for it. Otherwise I have to buy it from overseas where it's still a moneymaking business. Real hair just makes a completely different product. The wigs feel different, look different, style more naturally, etc."

"I see," Sam said, just as the bells on the door gave another headache-inducing crash as Dean returned. He was really going to need some aspirin before too long.

"Ok," Dean said. "Which one is it? I'll take a pic of it and a few others so Nana can see them."

The woman led them to the other side of the showroom and picked up a dummy head with a short-haired wig in the typical permed old-lady style. "Here ya go." She held it out toward Dean and immediately the EMF meter in Dean's jacket pocket let out a muted squeal.

"What was that?" she asked.

"Nothing," Dean said nonchalantly.

"Really?" she said, her voice a completely different tone now, harder. "Because I can see the lights on it." She held the wig closer to Dean's pocket and the meter let out another, louder squeal.

"It's nothing," Dean said. "How much for the wig? Nana's on a fixed income. She'll want to know."

The woman waved the wig toward Dean's pocket and when the meter screeched again, she swore. "That's an EMF meter if ever I saw one and you two aren't here for your grandmother."

For once, Dean looked genuinely flummoxed. "I, uh…" He looked toward Sam who just shrugged.

"Well, is that an EMF meter or not?" the woman demanded.

"Yes," Dean confirmed. "We, uh…"

"Give me that thing." She held her hand out until finally Dean handed over the EMF meter. She waved it toward the other wigs, doing a quick sweep of the room, then finally put it right beside the first wig which made the little gadget light up light a Christmas tree. She swore again in a very unladylike sort of way.

"We need to-"

She immediately cut Dean off. "I know what to do," she snapped.

"I don't think-"

She snatched the wig off the dummy head and marched toward the back of the store. Seeing no other option Sam chose to follow, as did Dean. They walked into the back room, which was a very small studio sort of space with a work table, special stands with magnifiers, racks on the walls filled with supplies, but he didn't really have time to look around. The woman grabbed a small box from a shelf by the back door, threw it open and headed outside.

By the time Sam caught up, the woman had already thrown the wig into a large empty flower pot. She grabbed a small canister of table salt out of the box she'd brought and dumped it over the wig. She then took out a small tin of lighter fluid and squirted it on the wig. Dean was well ahead of her and by the time she was setting the lighter fluid down, he'd pulled a pack of matches out of the box and was tossing one in the pot.

The wig went up in a flash, surrounding them all with the distinctly unpleasant smell of burnt hair. There were a lot of smells Sam hated despite having spent almost his entire life around them. Burning hair was one of them. Burnt pop tarts was another one, although he'd never quite figured out why that one rated so high. It was somehow even worse than Dean's laundry.

"So," Dean pursed his lips, "I guess you've run into this kind of thing before."

The woman nodded staring down at the smoking remains of the wig. "I got a shipment of hair in once from overseas. Nearly lost the shop before a guy showed up and explained what was going on. He said the hair was human remains and I was being haunted." She sighed and ran a hand over her face tiredly. "I've been careful ever since, but my EMF meter broke a couple of months ago and I haven't had the money to replace it yet. Guess I should get on that."

"We need to know who you sold those other two wigs to," Sam said.

"Why? What happened?" the woman asked as if afraid of the answer.

"We weren't lying about running into Sheila, but…"

"Sheila's dead," Dean said bluntly.

The woman brought her hand up to cover her mouth, horrified. "What?"

"Her wig was bothering her," Sam explained more gently, "and things went downhill from there. We're trying to make sure nothing happens to anyone else."

"But, Peg Stapleton was the sweetest… She wouldn't…"

"Look," Dean said, "Sheila's dead and we need to make sure she's the only one. You know about hunters and ghosts, so chop chop." He clapped his hands. "Move it, Sue. We need those two names."

* * *

Dean drove out of _Sue's Scarves, Hats and Wigs_ like a person on a mission. The woman had quickly produced the two names and addresses and said she was going to call the women to say there was a problem with the wigs and that she would replace them free of charge.

They were still a few miles away from the first house when Sam heard the sirens. He adjusted the mirror so he could see behind them.

"Fire trucks," Dean observed grimly.

"Think we're too late?"

Dean pointed out the windshield. Sam squinted against the sun and after a second or two he saw it. There was a plume of heavy smoke rising into the sky just ahead of them.

The fire engines had gained on them and Dean pulled over to let them pass. Once they'd gone by, he pulled back into the road, but he didn't get back up to racing speed. They both knew there was little point in it now.

A few minutes later, they pulled up to see a home fully engulfed in flames with fire trucks surrounding it. They were pulling out hoses and beginning to douse the home, but it was plainly a lost cause. There was nothing to do but try to keep the fire from spreading to the house next door.

Wordlessly, Dean put the car back in drive and made a u-turn. "What's the second address?"

* * *

Sam was grateful to see that the second house seemed to be in good condition when they arrived. Dean practically marched up the steps, determined to keep this person alive. Sam followed at a more sedate pace. His headache was still bothering him and the bright sunshine wasn't helping.

Dean knocked on the door and after a few minutes a woman in a housedress opened it. She looked to be in her sixties, but definitely not a healthy sixty. She was jaundiced and although still plump, looked feeble, holding onto the door to steady herself. She was also clearly wearing the wig in question. It was a bit askew as if she'd put it on in a hurry to answer the door.

"Hello." Dean looked liked he wanted to grab the lady to make sure she didn't fall. "Sue, sent us over. She said there was a problem with the wig she sold you and she would like to replace it."

"Yes, she called a few minutes ago." The woman's voice was as weak-sounding as the rest of her. "I told her the wig was just fine and not to worry."

"Really," Sam said, pulling out his most reassuring tone, "she thinks the wig isn't going to hold together. She will replace it for free."

"Honey," the woman smiled sadly, "the wig only has to make it another month or two. I think it'll do fine."

"Ma'am," Dean started, but the woman shook her head again.

"You tell Sue not to worry about it." She started to shut the door. "I need to take a nap now. Thank you for stopping by."

When the door closed, Dean turned toward Sam. "Now what? She's gonna be a hush puppy if we don't do something."

Sam huffed in frustration. "Well… she said she was going to take a nap."

"And?"

"And we very quietly break in while she's napping."

"What if she wears it while she's asleep?" Dean shook his head. "I really don't want to hold a sick old lady at gunpoint to make her hand over her wig."

Sam didn't know what to say to that. "We'll cross that bridge when we come to it."

Dean chuckled. "Dude, you're totally gonna hold up an old lady."

"I am not." He eyed his brother, once again pleased to hear Dean laugh and to see a lighter expression on his face. "_We_ are going to rob one."

* * *

They waited a good half hour until they could see the woman, Sue said her name was Doris, fast asleep in her recliner in front of the TV. While they were peeping in windows, a quick scout-out of the house told them that the wig was in the back bedroom propped over a tall jewelry box.

Sam stayed to keep an eye on Doris through the window, while Dean headed to the back of the house for the B&E part of their venture.

Dean used his knife to pry up the window. He had to dig a bit, but finally the window opened a smidge. He worked his fingers under it and after some pushing and pulling managed to get the window open. He hoisted himself up and wiggled through the window, doubting he was going to get any points from the judges for elegance. His dismount was even less pretty.

Dean hurried across the room and snatched the wig off the jewelry box. He'd just turned back when Sam appeared at the window.

"She's awake," Sam hissed. "She's headed this way."

As soon as Sam said it, Dean heard one of the sounds he hated most in the world, the sound of someone who wasn't him racking a shotgun. Sam was looking behind him, his eyes wide. Dean turned his head to see Doris standing in the doorway, shotgun unsteadily in hand.

"Drop the wig, or I drop you."

* * *

_More soon…_


	5. Chapter 5

_When last we met, Dean was being held at gunpoint by poor Doris, who did not appreciate the attempted theft of her wig…_

Chapter Five

* * *

"Now, Doris… Let's not go doing anything crazy." Dean turned around very slowly. The old woman was already wavering and the shotgun was alternately aiming at his chest, either arm, and his head, none of which he particularly cared to have blown to pieces right now.

"I said drop my wig!"

As if in slow motion, the shotgun apparently became too heavy for the sickly woman and she began to topple forward. Dean lurched toward her, knocking the shotgun to one side, and just caught her before her knees hit the floor.

Close up, the poor lady looked even worse, her unnaturally darkened, yellowed skin a sign of impending organ failure. She was breathing heavily from her exertions and unless Dean was wrong, she was about to cry.

"We're not going to hurt you, ma'am. I promise. Are you all right?" Dean asked worriedly.

Sam had launched himself through the window as soon as the woman started to fall. Dean turned toward him and nodded for him to get rid of the shotgun. Dean meanwhile helped Doris, who was struggling weakly to get away from him. He set her back on her feet, but kept an arm around her in case she started to fall again.

"We tried knocking again, but you must not have heard us," Dean bluffed. "We even tried knocking on the window next to where you were sleeping."

The woman blinked tearfully and looked from him to Sam. "You did?"

Dean felt a definite stab of guilt. The old lady was dying and messing with her was enough to bother even his hardened conscience. "We just needed to convince you to let us take the wig. What we said before about it the wig breaking down… When she made yours, Sue had just got in a new shipment of the base for her wigs."

"The wig cap," Sam said helpfully.

"Yeah, and Sue didn't know it, but they'd been treated with a chemical that's not good for people with bad immune systems. It wouldn't bother your skin, but it's bad for your system." Dean was shoveling fast and furious, but it sounded good to him anyway. "We couldn't let you keep wearing the wig, ma'am. It's not good for you." And wasn't that the truth.

At that moment, the wig actually _twitched_ in his hand. It startled Dean and he dropped it on the floor. He immediately grabbed it back up and tossed it to Sam. "Outside," he urged, silently telling Sam that they were about to have a visitor if Sam didn't burn it pronto.

"I'll just take this," Sam said hurriedly. "We're sorry for the bother."

The woman opened her mouth to protest again, but Sam was too fast. He took the wig and if Dean could trust his ears, his brother jogged toward the front door.

"I'm sorry we scared you," Dean said, and meant it. He'd really hoped to take the wig and be gone before she even noticed. "We were worried about you though."

The old lady patted his arm kindly. "Well, it certainly gave me some excitement for the day!" she said and laughed a bit. "Not that the old ticker really needed the workout." She started to walk, but was clearly none too steady. Dean offered his arm and the woman took it gratefully. "Thank you, young man. I just… I think I need to sit down for a bit."

Dean steered her back toward the recliner she'd been sleeping in, carefully matching his pace to hers. By the time they'd arrived back in the living room, Sam was coming back in. He smiled smugly at the sight of his brother helping an old lady, and Dean gave him a glare. What was he supposed to do? He'd nearly given the woman a heart attack. He couldn't leave her floundering in the back bedroom.

"Everything ok?" he asked Sam.

"Taken care of," Sam replied.

Dean helped the woman sit back in her recliner and then stepped back. She looked up at him, sudden embarrassment on her face. "Could you… Would you… my hat." She pointed toward a side table where a cloth skullcap was sitting.

Dean hurried to get it and the woman quickly settled it on her bald head. "Thank you." She sounded genuinely grateful and relieved to have her head covered. Dean was once again sorry for taking her wig from her. He knew a girl once who'd been pissed that he'd seen her without her makeup. Seeing a lady without her hair had to be even worse.

"Is there anything else I can get for you?"

She scratched a hand over her cloth cap. "Yes… If you could tell Sue to just bring any old thing by." She smiled again and it looked to be a combination of strained and sad. "I'm old and tired, honey. I can't be traipsing to her shop anymore."

"We'll take care of it," Dean promised, making a mental note to call the wig shop. If Sue wouldn't drop one off, Dean would pick it up and deliver it himself. Because just once… he'd like to help a lady without it turning into a complete disaster. "You have a good day."

* * *

After they left Doris, there was only one wig left to check. Peg Stapleton had started all of this mess when she cut her hair and handed it over to the wigmaker. Peg was dead now, of course, but that meant the wig she'd had made for herself could be a number of places. She could have been buried with it, or it could have been given away or sold, or maybe the husband still had it. Whatever the case, they would have to ask Peg's barber husband what had happened to it. They'd stopped at the guy's house first, but he wasn't home, so they headed for his business.

Dean pulled up in front of the little barber shop which was basically an oversized shed, painted red to look like a little barn. He and Sam walked in to find the owner sitting in the one barber chair, reading a newspaper. He immediately set the paper aside and stood as they entered. His eyes slid past Dean to Sam and he smiled.

The barber patted the chair. "Have a seat, son. We'll get you fixed right up."

Dean looked at Sam who was shaking his head in a mixture of frustration and despair. Dean wanted to laugh, but decided to take pity on him since Sam had such a bad headache. His brother hadn't said anything, but he had that pinched look, almost like what he'd worn back when he was having visions on a regular basis. "We're not here for that, sir," Dean said. He pulled out a badge that was for some agency or another and flashed it quickly before stuffing it back in his pocket. "We're with the Fire Marshall's office, Mr. Stapleton. We're investigating an incident that took place earlier today."

"Oh?" The man shifted nervously on his feet.

"There was a fire at the Cancer Center and it seems to have started with a woman wearing a certain wig. We've checked with the wigmaker and believe it may have been contaminated somehow. We were told your wife also had one from the same set and we need to check."

"My… my wife…" The man swallowed heavily, his face suddenly appearing haggard and tired. "She died recently."

"We're very sorry for your loss," Sam offered.

"Thank you."

"Sir, I'm sorry to ask," he continued, "but, for the investigation, what happened to her wig?"

"She… it was her hair." The man looked between the two of them, unsure how to say what he wanted to say. "She was buried with it."

"Your wife was buried here locally?" Dean asked.

"She was cremated," the man answered. He shrugged. "She… she didn't look like herself anymore and she wanted it that way."

Dean nearly sighed in relief. If the wig had been cremated along with the woman, then their job was done. All of the hair had been destroyed. They still needed to make sure though. If even a bit was still hanging around, there could be trouble. "Sue said that you were the one to cut your wife's hair when she got sick."

The man nodded, then said wistfully, "She had such beautiful hair."

"Do you have a picture of her?" Sam asked kindly.

Mr. Stapleton pulled his wallet out of his back pocket and gestured for them to come closer. The picture had clearly been taken years before of an average looking young woman with long, long, dark hair held back in a ponytail.

"She was pretty," Sam offered, although Dean thought he was being generous.

"And that hair's so long," Dean added.

The man nodded. "That was the first thing she asked about when she got sick. I think losing her hair bothered her more than the chemo." He put the picture back into the little plastic sleeve to protect it and that was when Dean saw it. In the plastic sleeve next to the wife's picture was a lock of hair tied together with a small ribbon.

The same moment he saw the lock of hair, he felt the temperature drop and saw his breath as he exhaled. "Sam?"

"I know," his brother answered.

"Why is it so cold all of a sudden?" Mr. Stapleton asked.

Dean's eyes widened as the man's wife flickered into sight directly behind her husband. She grabbed a heavy old-fashioned glass jar filled with combs and barbicide and brought it down directly on the man's head. He crumpled to the floor in a heap.

The ghostly woman's fever bright eyes turned to Sam and Dean. Dean more felt than saw movement out of the corner of his eye. There was a shelf filled with hairsprays, gels, creams, and waxes. He felt one of the cans connect with his head and that was it. His last thought as he went under was that he didn't want Fop. He was a Dapper Dan man.

* * *

_And if you haven't seen _Oh Brother, Where Art Thou_ that last line means absolutely nothing to you, so sorry about that. Also, shame on you for not seeing _Oh Brother, Where Art Thou_._


	6. Chapter 6

_Here you have it, all wrapped up. Thank you for the kind reviews and for humoring me while I worked through my hair issues._

Chapter Six

* * *

Sam saw his brother drop to the ground and not move again. His eyes immediately darted back to the ghost of Peg Stapleton who he found was also staring at him.

"You don't want to do this," Sam began.

"He took it from me. He took my hair before it was gone and kept it for himself," she hissed.

Peg's ghost was definitely bald and _clearly_ she'd keyed in on the loss of her hair. "You were sick," Sam tried for logic, "and your husband wanted to help you."

"You think I don't know about being sick?" the ghost demanded. "You think I don't understand?"

In a flicker, the ghost disappeared from where she was and reappeared directly in front of Sam, meeting him face to face despite the fact that he was a good foot taller than the woman had been. Sam stumbled back in surprise only to have the ghost once again reappear only inches from him.

"You think I don't know it when I see it?" Her dead eyes bored into his. After another second, the ghost cocked her head to one side. "Did you know that some nurses can _smell_ when a patient is dying? They say it's very distinct. They know before the patient, before the family, before the doctors even. Some nurses… they can tell. They know when a person only has a day or two left."

"Your husband-"

The ghost cut him off, or completely ignored him. "You," her dead eyes looked him up and down again, "are sick."

Sam was taken aback. "What?"

"You're dying."

"I'm fine," Sam shot back, glancing nervously toward Dean who still wasn't moving. For once Sam was almost glad to see it. He didn't want him hearing this.

"Denial won't stop it from happening."

Sam opened his mouth to issue another denial, only to have the ghost push him, shove him really into the wall behind him. His head banged against the wall, ratcheting his headache up to astronomical levels. "I'm fine," Sam ground out through clenched teeth.

"Your days are numbered. Watch the people. Watch them all. They will pick you clean even before you're gone. They're like vultures, taking what you care about most before you're ready to let go."

Sam wanted to argue. He wanted to throw the ghost's words back in her face, but he couldn't. Not the crap about being picked clean, but the part about being sick… He could feel it. It had started after the first trial and he knew, he just _knew_, there was no way it was going to get better. They were trials after all. What good was a trial without a little physical deterioration thrown into the bargain? He'd like to think his headache was just from smoke inhalation, but he knew it was more than that. It was just the way their sucky world worked.

Sam decided it was high time he got hold of that lock of Peg's hair and sent her packing. He couldn't afford for Dean to come out of his stupor and hear the ghost blabbing about whatever was going on with him. Besides… his head was killing him and he wanted this over. As soon as he thought it, however, he felt warmth on his upper lip. His nose was bleeding.

"Let's see you deny it now," the ghost hissed.

Sam began feeling lightheaded as more blood flowed from his nose, that and his crushing headache no doubt added to by his heightened blood pressure. The ghost once again shoved him back and his head connected with the wall. That was all it took for the lightheadedness to begin to fade into darkness.

* * *

Dean opened his eyes just in time to see his brother slide to the floor and slump over, unconscious. Dean ordered the fog muddling his brain away and focused his eyes, zeroing in on the wallet that had fallen out of Mr. Stapleton's hand. Dean got up on all fours and inelegantly shuffled toward it. His first instinct was to check on Sam, but he knew he couldn't help his brother until the ghost was taken care of.

Another canister clipped his head, but it was closer to a graze and he kept scuttling forward. He grabbed the wallet and dodged several more flying objects as he tried to pull the lock of hair out of the protective plastic sleeve with his less than steady fingers.

Finally, he pulled the lock of hair free and jerked his lighter out of his pocket with his other hand. He almost dropped it, however, when the ghost materialized right in front of him, her face only inches from him.

"Don't, please!" she begged. Dean looked at the woman, surprised by the tone. "Please," she said again. "It's all I have left. I wasn't pretty. I wasn't rich or smart or… anything, but I had such beautiful hair. My hair… it's all I have."

Dean's eyes travelled behind the ghost to his brother who was still slumped on his side. Dean knew the feeling, in a way. He knew what it was to have so little and the need to protect it. Which was why he didn't appreciate having a ghost clock his brother, or her husband for that matter. You fought to protect people, protect family, not hair, not things.

Dean flicked his lighter and in a sudden flash of sparks Peg Stapleton was gone along with the last of her hair. Dean hated the smell of burning hair. It was on his list of worst smells even though he'd been around it on a regular basis since he was a kid. It didn't rank quite as high as Sam's feet after they'd been hiking, but it was close.

Dean hurried over to Sam and eased him down onto the floor so he was lying in a more comfortable position. "Sam?" He tapped him on the cheek. "Sammy?"

Sam's nose was bleeding, but it didn't look like he'd taken a hit to the face. Dean sighed. He knew Sam had been fighting a headache ever since the fire and that it had been getting worse as the day went on. He also knew that there was more going on that Sam wasn't telling him. Dean knew that the first trial had done something to his brother. He also knew Sam wasn't going to tell him about it until he had to. Dean just sighed again and repeated to himself his decision to look out for Sam and make sure the trials didn't cost more than he was willing to pay.

Dean smacked Sam a little harder on the cheek and his brother started to come around. "Sam? You in there?"

Sam blinked hazily and sat up with a little help from Dean. He wiped at his nose with the back of his hand and gave Dean a nervous glance which confirmed Dean's suspicion that it was more than just the ghost that was giving his brother trouble.

"You get her?" Sam asked.

Dean grinned and helped Sam to his feet. "Don't I always?"

Sam just rolled his eyes. "What about Mr. Stapleton?"

Dean quickly checked on the guy and saw that he was also coming back to consciousness. He'd have a killer headache, but that was it. Dean felt sorry for the guy. He'd just lost his wife and then she'd tried to kill him. He wouldn't know that though since he'd been clocked before any of the fun stuff happened. Dean looked to his brother. Family was a complicated thing.

* * *

"He's waking up. Let's get out of here," Dean ordered.

Sam just nodded and headed a little unsteadily for the door. His head was still killing him and he wanted nothing more than a nice dark motel room and a handful of painkillers. Their nice quiet rest after the first trial had lasted all of a minute before it had gone down the tubes, but maybe they could make it happen now.

Dean opened the glass door and let Sam leave first. He held onto the rail as he walked down the short ramp and he could practically feel Dean hovering close behind him in case he stumbled.

"You ok?" Dean asked as they reached the bottom of the ramp and something in his tone made Sam look at him.

"Yeah, I'm fine," Sam answered. "Just bumped my head." Dean handed him a wet paper towel he must have got from inside the shop and Sam used it to clean the blood off his face.

"You sure?" And again, something in Dean's tone made Sam wonder if he was asking about more than just what had happened in the barber shop.

"Yeah," he repeated. "Just need a day or two off. I'm tired after the… the trial, you know."

Dean nodded and they headed for the car. "Got it. We were going to anyway before the Wig of Doom showed up."

Sam got in the car and Dean followed, but he didn't start the car right away. "What?" Sam asked nervously.

"It's just… I've been thinking."

"About what?"

"The ghost and all. About what happened in there." Dean pursed his lips, his expression solemn. "I've decided you can keep your hair."

Sam just stared at his brother who couldn't hold his expression any longer and started to laugh. "You're a real jerk. You know that?"

Dean raised his eyebrows, all innocence, ruined by the fact that he was still grinning. "What? I said you could keep your chick hair!" Sam just glared at him as he started the car and backed out of the little barber shop's parking lot. "Still," Dean added, "a trim wouldn't kill you. I know a lady who'll pay top dollar."

Sam leaned his head back against the seat tiredly. He couldn't help a small grin of his own though. It was good to be back with his brother. He'd missed being able to talk without it being angry or accusing or worse, just indifferent.

Sam sighed contentedly. "Just drive, Dean."

* * *

_Hope you enjoyed it. Thanks for reading!_


End file.
